


Millah is Hardy for Cara Mia

by Quannon



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Humor, Light Angst, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27337813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quannon/pseuds/Quannon
Summary: Hardy and Miller go to the Wessex All Station Halloween Party.
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60





	Millah is Hardy for Cara Mia

**Author's Note:**

> This is POV Hardy although I hope Ellie's POV can be deduced. This story takes place entirely at the Halloween party, mostly in Hardy's head.

Hardy is alone, standing uncomfortably by the wall next to the punch bowl, at the Wessex All Station Halloween Party. Standing alone. By the wall. Near the punch bowl. “This is it”, he thinks. “I’ve become the joke in a Graham Norton introduction: Please welcome the multi-talented DI Hardy, Britain’s Worst Cop, Oldest Wallflower, and Least Impressive Gomez Addams Impersonator.”

He still couldn’t believe that he let Miller bully him into this.

He looked morosely at the full drink in his hand. He has it to ward off cops who can smell blood in the water at 50 meters. He can see them circling just out of the corner of his eye. Each and every one of them was waiting for the right moment to swoop in to top up his glass and offer snide remarks thinly veiled as sympathy. He was dressed in black pinstripe formal trousers, a maroon cummerbund with sash, and a black jacquard vest with a u-shaped neckline over a white dress shirt with a white cravat and jeweled tie pin. His hair was slicked back (or was when he started out the evening). He already knows he looks more like Lurch with a beard than Gomez with a mustache thank you very much.

He doesn’t dare sip (or gulp) any of the amber liquid for a better reason than just maintaining its shark repellent properties. As a seasoned detective who has gotten the better of murderers, rapists, and brutal thugs, he can handle a bit of sniping, but he has worked too hard and put up with too much humiliation to fuck up he and Miller’s bit by having too much to drink. Their turn at the Costume and Talent Show is coming up in a few minutes. Miller has been drilling him for weeks on what to do. He’s planning on downing the whole drink immediately after they’re done, but having any now would hit him at the wrong moment. And it would probably spontaneously generate Ollie to be present as someone’s plus 1 to report (with phone pics): DI ‘Shitface’ Hardy Shitfaced at Wessex Halloween Gala. He shivered involuntarily; the sharks tightened the circle.

And where was Miller anyway? This was all her idea. It’ll be fun, she said. You’ll like it, she said. You need to mingle a bit with the rest of us, she said. When did he ever listen to that kind of claptrap? Next it would be all essential oils, herbal tea and group hugs. Then she added, “And we have to take back the Best Costume and Talent award from those Bournemouth wankers”. He grumped at the refreshment table as though it were covered in actual claptrap and wankers instead of just diabetic coma inducing sweets and artery clogging casseroles. He still had some dignity to maintain. He was the DI for the Broadchurch Station after all.

He finally spotted Miller up in front of the “stage”. Well that wasn’t fair. It was an actual stage. He just didn’t want it to be a stage with good lighting and enough space to move around; with speakers that could amplify their music and microphones to amplify their voices; and be raised so everyone could see them and .. He had to stop thinking like this. He spoke to the bloody press! He could do this talent show in a Gomez suit. It wasn’t that big a deal. It was Halloween. It would be quick and then he could escape and glare at everyone on Monday morning and never have to hear about this again. Ever. 

Miller was wearing a black sequined dress with a plunging neckline that clung to her body all the way down to her ankles. She said she’d had to do something with something called shape wear to look half decent in it, but Hardy didn’t believe that for a minute. Whatever shape wear was, Miller didn’t need it. She looked way more than halfway decent in it. He’d tried to tell her that, but she threatened to lose his paperwork for a month, if he couldn’t say anything nice. He thought telling her she looked ok in it was saying something nice. He did briefly think maybe he was supposed to say that it didn’t make her butt look big but he suspected that was wrong too and gave it up as a bad show. She also had on black ballet flats, a long black wig and rings with large black stones on both ring fingers to complete her look. And red nails. And smudgy grey make-up on her eyes. And black lines next to her lashes that somehow had gotten longer and blacker and made her eyes sultry. And red lips that ...

A detective notices things in detail he thought. Remember that. 

CS Clarke stepped out onto the stage with a handheld microphone. She tapped it a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. The crowd quickly quieted down since this was the main attraction for the night. Each and every “act” was a great opportunity to get to know the competing coppers as well as their station houses in a friendly rivalry … or so the flyer advertised. It was supposed to build inter-station cooperation to have these do’s and lead to organic (meaning at no cost) up-skilling in the respective station personnel in each other’s areas of expertise. This in turn would increase each station house’ vertical competencies. Clarke mentally snorted every time she remembered that blather by the human resources department. She was sure they had never actually met any humans. 

“Welcome to the Fifth Annual Wessex All Station Halloween Party and Talent Show!” she announced brightly. It appeared she had timed this correctly. Most people looked pleasantly buzzed but no one was fully pissed yet. Happy instead of predatory smiles graced most of their faces in expectation of the hilariously embarrassing entertainment that was sure to come. “This year, as you know, Bournemouth Station are the defending champions. We have some great talent lined up from Broadchurch and from Lyme Regis and from Beaminster to name a few. Let’s give all our talented colleagues a rousing cheer to get this Talent Show started!” She ended the intro on an appropriate upbeat note and the crowd followed suit with a burst of encouraging cheering. That went well, she thought.

There were 17 station houses but not all of them had an entry. A couple of them were small enough that they had combined with others to make a joint entry. In the end, there were just 8 acts, most of them singing or karaoke but there were a couple of unexpected choices to keep it interesting.

Beaminster – Adele “Rolling in the Deep”  
Lyme Regis – Diana Phillips/Mathew Clairmont from Discovery of Witches romantic scene re-enactment  
Verwood -- Elton John – Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting (on the piano they had to bring in, with back-up singers getting into it while ‘Elton’ gamely brings it off)  
Winfrith HQ – water magic act  
Swanage – Mary Berry baking a showstopper meat pie with Mr. Bean  
Weymouth – Monty Don shows how to compost bodies (SOCO humor)  
Christchurch – Shakira “Try Everything” mashed with “la despedida” (Love in the Time of Cholera”)  
Broadchurch – Gomez/Morticia Tango from Addams Family Values

“Let’s give our first performer from Beaminister, our own PC Ferguson, a big welcome! PC Ferguson will be singing Rolling in the Deep made famous by Adele!” She turned to welcome the nervous girl onto the stage and passed her the microphone. The stage lights spotted her and the talent show had begun.

Hardy decided he’d better saunter over toward the stage stairs. He and Miller had to be backstage when Weymouth went on in order to be prepared to enter on time. Each act had about 5 minutes and no more. Politeness expiration for this crowd was probably about an hour at best even if they were the police. And of course Broadchurch was last. He’d checked the tables to be sure there were no tomatoes just lying around for “re-distribution” and had found none. They would have had to bring their own in their pockets. Perhaps they were safe from that at least. Although coppers could be a creative bunch if they really wanted to be. There were such things as plastic bags.

In the darkened ballroom of Poole’s next to seediest rental venue, Hardy saw Miller swim into his view from the crowd. All that black had made her blend in although he was noticing now that it also made her face stand out when she turned toward him. Like a beacon or a light house, guiding him toward her. (Bloody Hell Hardy! He though to himself. Get a hold of yourself man. You don’t even like her!) 

A very small but precise voice in his head replied You do. You do.

“Are you ready?” she stage whispered when she was next to him. Her eyes were shining and he knew that she was really up for doing this. She’d been looking forward to it for months. He’d never understand why, but this made Miller happy and kept him in completed paperwork so he’d given in. And now they were here and he was by God going to do his part even if he’d have to leave town. It’s not like that never happened before.

They made their way up the stairs and backstage as Monte Don was extolling the virtues of spade work and aeration in obtaining complete composting. The wings actually did have some space so he and Miller did a few quick stretches and then tried out a spin and a dip just to see if anything broke. By the time they had checked their costumes for wardrobe malfunction opportunities, Shakira was just wrapping up a rather good “la despedida” to quite a bit of applause. Hardy quickly zipped behind stage to the other side to enter behind Clarke. Miller would enter from the side they were on now. As the glowing DC Harford (who had transferred after the Winterman case) came off the stage and breezed by them, CS Clarke announced, “And for our final entry, DC Miller and DI Hardy of Broadchurch Station as Gomez and Morticia dancing to Libertango!”

The recorded music came on over the speaker system as the lights came down to center stage. It started slow with just the piano bass line to set the beat. The crowd had had just enough to begin to clap along with it. Hardy and Miller entered dramatically with long dance steps as though running toward each other. They met. Miller elegantly cold shouldered him to turn to face the audience with outstretched arms. He stepped behind her and clasped her hands. As the full piano melody ramped up, Hardy re-enacted Gomez kissing Morticia up one arm and down the other until she stopped him with a raised hand in his face while hers was looking in the opposite direction.

Hardy inwardly gasped. Miller was almost vibrating with energy and empowerment in his arms. It had not felt like this in practice, but here, under the lights, in their full costumes everything somehow felt more intense: more publicly personal in the contorted logic of taking on another’s persona. 

Miller spun to the extent that their clasped hands would allow and he automatically reeled her back. They seemingly almost collided yet locked smoothly into their dance forms with bodies facing, her left arm draped over his extended right elbow and their hands clasped pointing stage left. They held their gaze for moment. Miller’s eyes burned into him with a rich promise of … what? It felt primal, powerful, magnetic. It called naturally for the dramatic opposite head turning move that came next to dissipate some of that energy before they were consumed. They centered again with locked eyes to slow mirroring patterned leg sweeps that, tonight, seemed to have a meaning just out of his ken. 

The music swelled, they faced their clasped hands and executed the long progressive link step to center stage left. They did a few quick rock steps with faces opposed and then the seductive cross walk back to center stage where Miller spun down his right arm again but this time he released and she twirled to right center to do a series of complicated leg movements ending with her head pointing stage right and her back arched just as he slipped in to support her, her left arm naturally re-draping over his right elbow. 

They locked eyes again. She looked magnificent and pulsed with energy. He didn’t think he could bear this, this intensity. An obstinate part of his brain insisted she was just winded. He turned its volume off.

They righted smoothly and began a series of crosswalks, hip movements and twirls back toward stage left. Hardy became lost in the energy field that was Miller. He no longer thought about the steps as actions to take but simply followed through the energy lines emanating from her. He felt his own body start to sing in harmony with the unheard song and he let it happen. 

They crossed and twirled and undulated; separated and came together; locked eyes and spun away. He was unaware of the music as a piece, but it all seemed natural and something incredibly desirable. 

Just when he thought he could soar no higher, the music reached its crescendo. Suddenly there was one last rock, a twirl and a very low dip where Miller made a very small angle against the floor with her body at full extension. She was staring into his eyes as he held her. His left leg was also extended the length of her body and his right knee was deeply bent. The last note faded and the lights started to dim. Out of nowhere, Hardy softly says, “Millah!” just before full black.

A moment passes without movement. Both of their chests are heaving from the exertion of the dance but neither wants to break spell. CS Clarke clears her throat.

They automatically spring up and he twirls her to his right so that they can take their bow as the lights come up. For a moment there is no sound at all and Hardy is suddenly very afraid that he’s made fools of both himself and Miller and maybe he actually would have to leave town.

Then in the back there is one person clapping. He’s joined by another and then another and suddenly the entire off-duty Wessex police force is clapping for them. Again someone in the back cheers, “Good on ya, mate!” and the clapping intensifies. They have to return for a second bow before the crowd loses interest. 

Hardy isn’t sure he wants to know any details whatsoever about what just happened. Miller is ecstatic and is holding his hand even though the performance is over. PC Bob brought them both drinks when they went back down the stairs to re-join the party. The sharks seemed to have retreated to some other wading pool and he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Ollie. Everyone is congratulating Miller and no one (thank you Jesus) is saying anything to him.

The evening ends with Broadchurch re-claiming the award from the Bournemouth wankers (turns out it was a small plastic golf trophy someone had gotten on sale) and it didn’t appear that he was going to have to pack his bags. Miller seemed happy but gave him the look that said they were going “have to talk” but he didn’t let that bother him. He could always shut his office door and not let her in. 

At least he thought he could, but then he remembered the dance.


End file.
